A Pushcart at the Curb
schoolboys with their packs of books
clerks in stiff white collars
old men in cloaks
try to regiment their feet
to the glittering brass beat.
Run run run to see the soldiers.
_Puerta del Sol_
Night of clouds
terror of their flight across the moon.
Over the long still plains
blows a wind out of the north;
a laden wind out of the north
rattles the leaves of the liveoaks
menacingly and loud.
Black as old blood on the cold plain
close throngs spread to beyond lead horizons
swaying shrouded crowds
and their rustle in the knife-keen wind
is like the dry death-rattle of the winter grass.
(Like mouldered shrouds the clouds fall
from the crumbling skull of the dead moon.)
Huge, of grinning brass
steaming with fresh stains
gapes with smudged expectant gums
above the plain.
Flicker through the flames of the wide maw
rigid square bodie